


let your hair down

by gael_itarille



Category: RWBY
Genre: Atlas Academy, Drabble, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23293489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gael_itarille/pseuds/gael_itarille
Summary: Their relationship progresses. It starts with her hair.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Summer Rose, Qrow Branwen/Winter Schnee
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	let your hair down

**Author's Note:**

> A Qrowin fic! This piece spent a while in my drafts, but I felt it was time to publish it.
> 
> Enjoy! xx

The first time he sees her with her hair down is the first time he sees her at all.

She's sparring; parrying hits here and there; white locks tied up simply into a ponytail. Her opponent is horrible (his little Firecracker could annihilate that guy in a second- nevermind the fact that she's only 4; Tai's taught her well) and unsure- stumbling on the gravel and tripping over himself. In a swift blow, the Schnee heiress sweeps his legs out from under him, and the boy goes tumbling. In some last effort to regain his balance (he looks like a floundering fish), he grabs her ponytail- tugging the hairband off with excessive force. While she scowls, her fellow trainees gape. Her hair -when unrestrained- is ethereal, almost; something you'd expect to flutter in the wind and never return.

Huh.

Qrow drowns out Jimmy's voice, cause, well- she is pretty.

But he's always had a thing for dark hair, so he pays no attention to it.

-

Dark hair is no longer a sign of laughter. In fact, he'd rather not see it all.

So he doesn't flinch when he catches a glimpse of ivory when he passes through the hall. The door is open a crack, and the mirror shows just enough for him to know that there's a kid sitting on the bed, braiding the cadet's hair.

The child looks about Yang's age.

Qrow resists the urge to run.

-

Qrow has stopped flinching whenever he sees a head of black hair. His new flask rests heavy in his hand; and it's taken a while to get used to the metallic tang that taints whatever cheap liquor he's stashed in the bottle now.

Still.

It's better than seeing her whenever the lights are low.

His hand itches to reach for his booze right now, but he can't. He's been summoned; dragged here to watch these damn Atlas officials get crowed "Specialists."

It's a better name than cannon fodder. 

He knows why he's here. 

He's here because he's a shining example of a huntsman, an example of what these kids might become if everything goes right in the field.

Well, it sure as hell won't. 

But the little boy in the front row -dressed oddly in a blue vest with striking cyan eyes- doesn't know that. He cheers as if life just moves on; as if he doesn't know loss- pointing at the young woman in the front. He's on the shoulders of a girl, slightly older but no wiser. 

And so Qrow wonders what he's stolen from others. 

-

Beacon is holding an open house of sorts. Oz is personally guiding these hopefuls around the school; parading them with a sense of purpose.

Not that it will amount to anything. 

"This is team STRQ," he says, pointing to the photograph on the wall. "They were the best team to ever graduate Beacon, and you're all soon to follow in their footsteps."

The headmaster continues.

"You're going to become huntsman! You will be the guardians of our world; not just Vale..."

He keeps going; but Qrow doesn't notice.

That Schnee specialist is holding the hand of a pre-teen; watching as the smaller's eyes fill up with wonder. Her expression is fond and warm and wholly surprising. 

But she's still a specialist, and she can tell he's watching. She flickers her gaze over him once, sharply, but he doesn't expect her eyes to return back to the picture and then to him. Something clicks in her eyes, and he can't explain why, but she stiffens when she spots his flask. 

He doesn't have time for this. 

His grits his teeth and begins down the corridor, yet her voice stops him.

She casts a glance to the figures on the left side of the photo, and then stares him straight in the eye. 

"I'm sorry." 

It's quiet.

His intuition tells him she knows exactly who she's talking about. 

-

She looked at him with recognition that night. She knew who he was. She knew _how_ he was. 

He doesn’t like that.

-

He stumbles upon her in the snow.   
  
It’s fitting. Almost comical, really.   
  
She’s sitting right on a snowbank, though she doesn’t sink into it. She’s almost floating on top of it. 

He doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t either.

Maybe it’s because she seems so far away.

Winter watches his figure recede into the distance and wonders why he tips his flask so far back when he knows it’s already empty.

-

They meet, next time, in a garage of sorts.

It's not dusty or dingy, though it’s surely not pristine. Oil coats the concrete floors and there are more skid marks than stars in the sky; but the floors are swept and the shop offers a pretty good price for some grease and dust.

It’s one of the smaller retailers; yet known for its quality; though Qrow’s not sure the place can even legally be selling the dust it stocks cause the SDC sure isn’t selling to the Faunus owner at the counter.

The man’s a good guy- no worldly reason to smuggle dust into his little establishment- and the huntsman doesn’t ever see him hijacking a transport vehicle himself. 

Just when he’s about to ask who the supplier is, he sees her. She’s carrying a bulky metal briefcase, arm weighed down by it, yet chin held high. 

Now he knows.

The owner gives her a grateful smile and delicately carries the case behind a door and into the back.

Qrow scoffs. 

How admirable.

She’s not bad for a Schnee.

He watches as she struts back to a workbench, polishing her sabre, hands moving with care and a small dusting of _honour_.

Qrow lets his gaze hold a bit of respect.

Nevertheless, she’s also struggling to operate the rusting machine to her left, so he heads over to help with a light smirk.

He doesn’t drop any outrageous compliments (in fact, he makes a joke about her being too young since that machine was made before she was even _born_ ).

She looks at him like she understands, though.

He likes that.

-

He ends the day with a near-black white tank top, and a generous swipe of polish on his cheek.

But he’s managed to get a chuckle out of her, and that makes his haggard appearance worth it. He claps his hand in front of her with a grin, the resulting dust cloud causing her to hold back a sputter. Regardless, his palms are still stained grey. 

The steel of his flask remains spotless.

-

He catches her on a few more of her supply runs; white blouse streaked in charcoal-coloured grease and hair plastered to her chin. The flyaways from her new bun stick to her chin, and he snickers as she attempts to smooth them down.

She only succeeds in turning her white locks dark with soot.

He snatches the case she’s been lugging around and tells her to simply braid it.

“I don’t know how.”

Qrow nearly drops the priceless merchandise in his hand.

”Huh?”

”I was waiting for my sister to teach me once I return to Atlas.” Her eyes crinkle lightly.

Oh.

That’s adorable.

But it’s also a life lesson she’ll learn too late.

”Sit down.”

”What?” She raises an eyebrow.

”I’m gonna teach you.”

”No, no. I promised Weiss I would let her do it, and-“

Qrow knows it’s a bit manipulative, though he throws his preposition her way anyways.

”You could do her hair really nicely if you already knew how to braid. Y’know, dress her up for some school dance or something?”

There’s a pause, and then a huff.

”Fine.”

-

She still wears that god-awful bun around the compound, tightly wound and perfectly centred.

She does arch a brow and curls her lips slightly when she sees him pass by, though.

And when she's reading; the pages of her favourite book cast orange from the light of a candle (she's old-fashioned like that); she keeps her hair in a braid. It's messy and more often than not, it's lopsided. 

It makes her more human, though. 

So when he catches her fiddling with it at two in the morning, he tells her to stop and go to bed. 

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it," he quips, and she just sighs and looks at him under a half-lidded stare.

Winter closes her book and heads towards her quarters.

Qrow considers that a success. 

-

She's sparring again. Her partner can't get anywhere near her, and she surely can't grab Schnee's hair. 

Schnee's not untouchable, though.

-

He catches her painting her nails ten minutes before Atlas’ customary gala. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was doing it frantically.

”I didn’t know you painted your nails.”

”I don’t,” she sighs, “I usually wear gloves.”

”Usually?”

”Before I entered the military.”

Shes’s done already, moving on to a quick coat of mascara. It’s applied with a steady grip, and Qrow questions how many times she’s had to do this.

He hears a little gasp, though, and when he looks up from the floor she’s staring at her knuckles, ballet-slipper pink smeared all over her skin.

But it’s not that which surprises him.

Her hand is _shaking_. 

He approaches her with a gentle gait.

”Something bothering ya, Ice Queen?”

Right. Nicknames. Keeps things light and breezy. 

She shakes her head. 

“I’m fine.”

”Sure ‘bout that?”

He doesn’t even mean for it to come off teasingly, though she scoffs.

The huntsman grabs her hand with a soft smile, using his (only) handkerchief to wipe off the polish on her hand.

A moment of tenderness overtakes him, and Qrow finds himself grabbing the bottle of polish in his hands and running the brush along her shaped nails. 

For a minute, they simply sit beside her vanity- her hand in his. And it doesn’t feel _wrong_. He doesn’t feel guilty of sorrowful or anything like that. He’s content. Happy, perhaps. It’s not the bright yellow exuberance of sunflowers- more a pastel marigold that makes the world seem a bit more welcoming.   
  
“There,” he taps his thigh arrhythmically, “that better?”

She hums in agreement.   
  
He watches as she grabs a silver clutch from the top of the dresser. 

For some reason, he doesn’t move from his spot near the mirror. He thinks he’d just like to sit here for a second. Enjoy the minute of peace for a little longer. 

It seems she has the same idea. She stops and lowers herself onto her bed.

She glances at him from across the room. 

“Qrow?”

She’s looking at the wall again.

”Yeah?”

”I’m doing better now.”

He laughs, unbridled and clear.   
  
“I’m glad.”

-

They’re late to the party, yet neither of them mind.

Sitting in silence spoke volumes.

When the end of the event rolls around, Qrow walks her back to her room. Winter invites him in, and they sit shoulder to shoulder.

Eventually, a conversation starts up, and he leans a little of his weight on her.

She doesn’t falter. 

She’s willing to support him. 

-

“Just hold still, Qrow.”

”No.”

”I need to suture this up.”

”No.”

”It’s for the greater good.”

”Like hell-“

”Profanity.”

”Ice Queen-“

”Just let me do it.”

”No.”

”Why?”

Silence.

”...Are you afraid of needles, Qrow?”

”...No.”

She releases a tinkling laugh, and Qrow muses to himself. It’s not the needle, it’s how close she is.

-

“Change your shoes.”

”What?”

”Ice Queen, this is one of the nicest boats in Vale-“

”Really?”

”And I will not have you scratch up the flooring with your freakin’ dagger-shoes.”

She wrinkles her nose, and kicks her boots off, leaving them limp on the floorboards. She’s barefoot now, and the tips of her toes brush the water’s surface when she attempts to get off the dock.

She shrieks, and Qrow smirks. 

-

They spend the day on the sea. Her fingers reach out and greet the waves periodically; the smell of salt and sun wafting around their senses. 

She undoes her braid and allows her white locks to ruffle in the breeze. 

She could be a model if she wanted.   
  
But she’s not, and somehow, it makes her that much more alluring. 

-

Winter makes sure to leave a groove in the birch wood before she exits the nautical vessel.   
  
Qrow yaps her ear off about it, but the next time she returns, he hasn’t made an effort to repair it. 

She huffs out a breath. Good enough.

-

He prods at the gunshot wound tentatively, and she can barely see him wince before she’s clenching her teeth and closing her eyes and hissing.

”Just get it out.” Her tone is clipped, and every ripple in her shoulder exudes pain.

Is it _that_ hard to extract a metal particle the size of the nail on her pinky?

 _Yes_.

“Qrow-“

He sighs. 

“Ice Queen, I can’t just yank it out. We need to get you to a medic.”

”Whitley’s waiting for me, and I haven’t seen him in a year-“

”Is he just supposed to _like_ it when you’re losing blood?”

She gapes like Whitely’s goldfish for a moment. Qrow’s voice takes on a higher pitch, and he rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner.   
  
“Oh, hello dear sister. Hello, Whitely. Yes, yes, how are things going in the military?”

He imitates her voice again.

”Absolutely peachy! Did I ever tell you about the time I got shot? Oh, no, no, no, it was recent. In fact, I can show you the blood oozing outta my arm _right_ _now_!

She scowls. 

“Melodramatic.”

”Refusing treatment isn’t gonna make you nonchalant. It’ll just make you stupid.”

He laughs cynically for a moment.

”I dare say it wouldn’t make you _cooler_.”

Due to the obvious word play on her name, Winter glares at him in silence. His crimson orbs shine back. 

“See, that’s funny, cause you’re name is Winter and you’re supposed to be cold and I used the word cooler and-“

”Shut up.”

After five minutes, he’ll mock her and say, “Ooh- vitriol,” with a teasing drawl. But she’ll hold his hand when the medic he’s forced her to visit eventually gauges the bullet out, and that’s not bad.

-

"Get off me."

"It's a scary movie, Ice Queen."

"You're a veteran huntsman."

"And that's a possessed doll!"

Qrow's currently curled in her lap, arms wrapped around her midriff with a secure grip. 

"It was just a jumpscare."

"And you expected me to stay on my side of the couch?!"

"I _expected_ you not to spill the popcorn."

"You left it in the _middle_ of the couch!"

"Well, I didn't plan for your little scream-and-scramble from the _other side_ of the couch!"

Winter rubs her temples and groans.

"Whatever. Pass me the remote."

"We are not gonna keep watching this."

Winter just presses the play button aggressively. Qrow huffs.

-

"Ice Queen, did you just scream?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Cause that sounded like a 'Qrow, I'm scared, help me' scream."

"Shut up."

He grins. After a beat of silence, he asks, "You good, Ice Queen?"

"Fine." 

He's still in her lap, though, and he notices how her arms wrap around him in kind. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, tell me what you thought in the comments!


End file.
